


It Gets Better

by NimWallace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, Softie Crowley (Good Omens), Suicidal Thoughts, TW for suicidal mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 17:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20344030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: The Ineffable Husbands help a young woman who needs it. Or: maybe being human isn't all that bad.Inspired by an anonymous request!





	It Gets Better

  
It happens on a Sunday afternoon.   
A lazy Sunday, of course, and Aziraphale plans on closing the shop and going for a picnic with Crowley, but has yet to put the closed sign on the door.  
Crowley has just gotten dressed, even though its already noon. They plan on doing absolutely no work, good nor evil, that day.   
After being separated from their superiors, they settle on being angel nor demon, at least in responsibility. They still have divine power, but they mostly just use it to make sure they’re clothes fit and their sheets are washed and Aziraphale’s cocoa never grows cold.   
Of course, Aziraphale will pepper in an angelic act here and there. “I may not be working for Heaven anymore, dear, but I’m still an angel.”   
Of course, most of his good deed still largely consist of quieting crying children or rescuing kittens from trees and generally things he thinks of as “good deeds”.   
Crowley keeps his facade of evil up for an alarmingly short period, but in no time he is no longer gluing coins to the pavement and bringing down cell towers.   
He tells Aziraphale it’s just because he ends up inconvenienced by it eventually. But the angel knows better, giving him a small smile and a, “Of course, dear,” when he brings it up.  
So neither angel nor demon expect divine intervention to become their specialty.   
But this lazy Sunday afternoon is when it starts.   
  
“Almost ready to go, angel?”   
“I have to find my sunblock, dear, I’ll only be a moment!”   
Crowley is pretty sure angels don’t need sunblock, but he’ll ignore that and let Aziraphale go through his routine without disruption.   
Then he hears the bell above the door jingle.   
A young woman rushes rather quickly into the shop.   
She can’t be older than 19, maybe 20, and she looks flustered and anxious. She starts to sift through books with a fierce determination, as if they are the only thing keeping her on the ground.   
Aziraphale comes bouncing down the stairs happily, opening his mouth to tell the woman they’re closed before Crowley grabs his arm in a “wait, observe” gesture.  
“Something I can help you find, miss?” Aziraphale chirps. The woman glances in his direction, but won’t meet his eyes.   
“I’m--um, just browsing,” she says, but her voice is clearly cracking. Crowley has on earth for 6,000 years. He knows what a panic attack looks like. He exchanges a look with Aziraphale, who nods.   
“I’ve just put tea on,” he says, which Crowley quietly miracles into existence in the kitchen. “Why don’t you have a cup? You seem a bit stressed.”   
“I--I’m all right, I’m just--”Her voice breaks and she shields her face.   
“Oh, you poor dear,” Aziraphale says gently, putting a hand on her back.   
“Please, come sit down. Crowley, close the shop up.”   
The woman mutters a thank you as Aziraphale guides her to a chair and brings her tea. Crowley snaps his fingers and the sign outside appears on the door.   
He can feel the aura of dread and fear and hopelessness surrounding the woman. It’s. . .incredibly deafening. He can hardly hear anything else over it.   
Aziraphale gives the woman a box of tissues and allows her to wipe her eyes and gather herself before he asks his next question;   
“What’s your name, my dear girl?”  
“Genesis.”   
Ironic, Crowley thinks.   
“Genesis. That’s a lovely name. My name is Aziraphale, and this is my partner Crowley.”   
The girl looks up and gives him a timid wave. Crowley offers a half smile.   
“So why don’t you tell the old angel here what’s going on,” he says gently. “He’s better at these things than me.”  
Genesis sips her tea timidly.   
“I wasn’t feeling well today,” she sniffled. “It’s. . .I haven’t felt good in a long time. And it’s just. . .” she trails off.   
“It’s all right,” Aziraphale says gently. “Take your time. You can be honest here.”   
Another moment of silences stretches as Genesis cups her tea in her hands.   
“I wanted to die,” she admits in scarcely a whisper. “I-I thought I might do it today--” she breaks off in a gut-wrenching sob. Aziraphale looks up at Crowley with a heartbroken expression.   
“Oh dear,” he says, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “That must be a dreadful thing to feel.”   
“It is,” Genesis chokes. “I--I came in here to distract myself--”   
“Well, I’m glad you did. You shouldn’t be alone, feeling like this.” Aziraphale put a hand on her back.   
“You in any treatment?” Crowley asks. He knows its blunt, but--  
“I-I want to, but I can’t afford--”  
“Now you can.”   
Crowley sits in his chair as the young woman looks at him with stunned eyes.   
“Wait, you--”   
“I have plenty of money to throw around. May as well put it to good use. Which treatment center would you be most comfortable with?”   
Aziraphale looks at him like he’s the sun, and Genesis looks too shocked to speak.   
“You really want to--” she chokes.   
“I won’t take no for an answer, actually.” He strides up to her. “You need help, and you _can _get it. Just give it a shot. If it doesn’t work, call us again.”   
Genesis just stares at him for a long moment.   
Then she suddenly shoots out of her chair and throws her arms around the demon.   
“Thank you so much. Both of you. I-I can’t express--” her voice cracks. Aziraphale smiles softly at her.  
“Any time, dear, anytime. I believe there’s a cab outside waiting to take you to the hospital now. Whenever you’re ready.”   
“Call us or come by any time,” Crowley adds.  
Genesis looks between them. She knows she should be scared, or suspicious, but instead she just feels like her life has been saved for the night, like something divine has just happened.   
“Thank you,” she whispers, and then she’s gone.   
  
That’s the story of how AZ Fell and Co becomes a crisis center. It seems that whoever goes in receives treatment, all payed for bye a suspiciously rich man in dark sunglasses.   
“It feels good, to heal again,” Crowley says one night as they lay in bed. Aziraphale gives him an adoring look.   
“I know, my dear, You’re doing a good thing; I’m very proud of you.” He kisses the top of his head and turns out the lights.


End file.
